


Rum On the Fire

by saellys



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, Drinking & Talking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Hawke's Love Language Is Gift Giving, Mutual Pining, Post-Act One, Pre-Romance, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 07:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17721074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saellys/pseuds/saellys
Summary: “I’m not a strategist.”An understatement for the ages. “You’ll have to become one, for this.”“I’m not a leader,” she tries, a desperate hitch in her voice.“And yet I enjoy following you,” Fenris says, and it must be frustration with his tenacity that prompts Hawke to take a swift, deep draught of the wine.





	Rum On the Fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nobbie (sirconnie)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirconnie/gifts).



> I started and abandoned this months ago, but yesterday it clawed its way out my WIPs. The title is from Hozier's "Cherry Wine".

Fenris has nearly finished getting the scent of the Deep Roads out of his scabbard when Hawke blows in like a thundercloud, fury in her eyes and blood on her lip. “They took Bethany,” she announces, “and everyone I know is suddenly  _ fucking useless _ .” 

He is on his feet before he fully comprehends who would have taken Bethany and where. Hawke starts to pace, hands conducting a choir of dissent. 

“Mother wept for all of thirty seconds before it became my fault,” she goes on, “so I left for the Hanged Man. Varric had the gall to look me in the eyes and say we ought to bide our time, wait for the opportune moment, and Isabela called that  _ wise counsel _ , like she would know such a thing if it bit her on the rear. Merrill said if they just took her, it’s likely she’ll be in some obscure part of the tower, being processed and all that. Which actually was wise counsel, but she still wouldn’t go with me. Anders  _ refused _ to get me into the Gallows--he said it would be suicide, but I could see his eyes flashing and I think if I try while he’s asleep, Justice would do it. I went to Aveline, because who’s left but the person who actually married a Templar on purpose. She said I was mad to think of it, and I said she’s probably relieved that this finally happened, and she punched me, and told me to come back when I’m not trying to do something rash. So, never.” 

When he thinks the tirade is over, Fenris ventures, “You thought to get a different answer here?”

“What?” Hawke blinks as if waking. “Fenris, I would never ask that of you.” 

The part of him that was waiting for the word grudgingly uncoils. It would have been difficult, but probably not impossible, much like everything seems to be when Hawke is there, from surviving the Deep Roads to wresting away a magister’s property. “Then you came here to…” 

She looks uncertain. It suits her as ill as the near-mania of a moment ago. “If you’ll have me,” she says, “to drink. Until I’m past the point of foolishness or I can’t walk anymore, whichever comes first.” 

Fenris eyes her for another moment, then offers her a bottle from the table. Hawke accepts it, realizes it’s empty, and takes his meaning. She grunts with the exertion of an overhand throw. The bottle shatters spectacularly on the far wall, and the blaze in Hawke’s eyes burns a little lower. Fenris nods. “I’ll get some more.”

“Watch your step,” she warns softly. He always does. 

In the cellar he peers uncomprehendingly at labels, lights his markings just enough to check the color. He tries not to dwell on how ready he was to follow her. She would never ask that of him. Instead, he is the one person she can stand to be around tonight, because she ruled him out before ever asking. 

_ If you’ll have me _ . Even in a pit of directionless rage, she spared a thought for what he wanted. There’s no hope of untangling the conflicting emotions she’s caused him in only two minutes. Best not to try.

He knows the shape of Aggregio Pavali’s letters from memory, and he brings two, as well as another red and a white, inferior but useful for when they’re too drunk to care about quality but not far enough gone to sleep. 

She is in her customary chair when he returns, glaring at the fire with enough intensity that Varric, were he here, might deem her more deserving of Fenris’s nickname. The glass shards have been swept against the base of the wall, by broom or by boot. He puts the bottles down and takes his seat. 

“We’re going to be neighbors,” she says to the fireplace. Her voice is low, tired. “Mother was halfway to getting the estate back, even before I had the gold. How can I live in a mansion while my sister is in the tower? I ought to stay with Gamlen. We’re the perfect pair: drunks who betray their family.” 

Venhedis--she hasn’t even started drinking yet. Fenris smacks the base of the first bottle smartly against the side of the hearth, a motion he has perfected, and the cork loosens just enough to remove it. He offers her the bottle, and, if she’ll take it, a sliver of absolution. “You didn’t betray her.” 

“I left her here by herself,” Hawke replies dully. She lifts the Aggregio to her lips and takes a long drink. “When I came back they were  _ in our house _ . If there is a hell, I’ll go to it for that.” 

“It sounds as though you’re already putting yourself through it.” 

“Fenris.” Her head lolls toward him, and she holds out the bottle. “Sitting here and talking to you is the opposite of hell.” 

At this crude and distinctly Fereldan echo of what he said to her months ago, something sparks inside him. He drinks to snuff it out. 

“When the opportune moment--” Reflexively she sneers, and he hands her the wine and tries again. “When the time does come, what will you do?” 

Her eyes go sharp, but not feral the way they were before. “I want them to burn. I don’t know how.” 

“Think on it.” 

“Do you have a plan for dealing with Danarius?” 

“Many,” he assures her. 

“I’m not a strategist.”

An understatement for the ages. “You’ll have to become one, for this.” 

“I’m not a leader,” she tries, a desperate hitch in her voice. 

“And yet I enjoy following you,” Fenris says, and it must be frustration with his tenacity that prompts Hawke to take a swift, deep draught of the wine. 

“Let’s talk about something else,” she rasps. “Find any new recipes for mushroom soup?” 

Now it’s Fenris’s turn to sneer. “I am  _ sick _ of mushroom soup.” 

She laughs, fleeting though it is, and passes him the bottle. “The invitation still stands, any day. Mother loves company.” 

Perhaps there will come a point when he has the wherewithal to turn up on Hawke’s doorstep at suppertime, but it will not be during the depth of her family’s grief. “The week before the expedition,” Hawke goes on, “she came home with half a chicken. Maker only knows where it came from or how much it cost. We hadn’t had meat in the house since I worked for Athenril. She roasted it over the fire, and it was two thirds gristle of course, but the  _ taste _ … I felt rich.” 

Fenris swallows dregs, and opens the next bottle. He gives Hawke the empty one, but instead of throwing it she sets about peeling the label. 

“Don’t expect I’ll ever have another meal without meat in it.” She adds, brightly, “I’m going to buy Isabela a hat. What’s something you want?” 

He drinks while he tries to think of an answer. “I have gold too. And we scavenge better steel than anything in the market.” 

“And you keep your leggings clean and mended, and you don’t wear shoes. What does one buy for the elf who wants nothing?” For once she doesn’t sound sardonic. Fenris glances at her and finds the open curiosity in her gaze almost too much to bear. 

He bears it long enough to pass her the wine, and then Hawke looks at the fire again with the scantest of smiles. “Varric’s getting a new gold chain,” she says, “to help hold back his chest hair. I’ll buy a sheaf of paper for Anders, and a good map of the city for Merrill. Aveline’s probably already requisitioned new gauntlets now that I’ve bled on hers, but another pair won’t hurt her.” She drinks. 

“In Tevinter they say new money is like snowmelt,” he says. “It flows fast and doesn’t last.” 

Hawke makes a face. “Does that still rhyme in Tevene?” 

Fenris has to admit it does not. “Save some gold to furnish your mansion.” 

“That,” she says, pushing the bottle at him, “will be up to Mother.” 

Casually, her eyes travel the room--the cracked plaster, the scattered tiles, the hole in the ceiling--and Fenris knows what she’s thinking. She catches him watching. It’s hard to tell by firelight, but he thinks she reddens. 

That doesn’t happen often. He takes an unhurried drink without looking away from her, and Hawke’s cheek dimples when she bites the inside of it. 

“Excuse me,” she says. She rises and walks out of the room without stumbling. He wonders if she’s past the point of foolishness yet, and considers her empty chair. What a marvel it is that when he smells Aggregio now, his first thought is not of his master’s banquets, but of Hawke’s wine-dark smile. 

He’s in a pleasant haze of warmth and drowsiness as he fetches the broom and sweeps the ashes from the tiles in front of the hearth. There’s only one proper blanket, but an old grain sack will serve him well enough. 

Upon her return Hawke reports, “You are so lucky I know my way around this place. There are entirely too many porcelain urns in the east wing. The confusion would have led to catastrophe in anyone else’s house.” She retrieves the partial bottle and finishes it off. “Can I beg one more favor?” 

Fenris lifts his chin toward the bed. “Go on.” 

Hawke’s confounded stare makes him wonder if she really does intend to walk back to Lowtown alone. Not as foolish as storming the Gallows tonight, certainly, but still a continent away from wise. “I didn’t come here to drive you out of your own bed,” she says. “I’ll sleep by the hearth, Fenris. It’ll be more comfortable than my bunk.” 

“Not going to happen.” 

She squares her stance, eyes hard. Fenris only folds his arms. Hawke turns her glare on the bed. “There’s room for us both,” she declares. 

They’ve just spent a month sleeping back to back in the Deep Roads--in fact, he grew accustomed to it. There is no difference, no reason for this to give him pause. His bed is softer. That’s all. 

That, and no one else is around. And they’ve each had a bottle of wine. And there won’t be a layer of steel between them. And Fenris feels as if his face could burst into flames at any moment. 

“If you’re comfortable with that,” Hawke adds. 

If he’s comfortable. If he’ll have her. Fenris takes a breath, lets it out through his nose, and says, “It’s a sacrifice I’ll make for the good of the city.” 

For once, his wit doesn’t earn him an answer in kind. “If you don’t want to--” 

“You’re drunk, Hawke. Go to bed.” Fenris walks past her, doffing his gauntlets and opening the buckles of his armor. With his back turned, she could still take the spot by the hearth. Shortly after he folds the blanket back and gets in on the side nearest the wall, he hears her set down her breastplate and boots, and feels her weight on the mattress. She pinches out the candles on the floor, but the moonlight still casts her shadow on the wall before him. 

Hawke settles at his back and pulls the blanket up to... not quite cover them both. He is exceedingly warm. For a while her deep, regular breathing is the only sound, but then the rhythm grows quicker, shallower. In a small voice she says, “She’s all alone. Wherever they’re keeping her tonight, she has no one.” 

“Hawke.” He feels her hold her breath. “When the time comes, and you have a plan, I’ll be there with you.” 

Her shoulder rolls against his; he is already turning his palm up. She finds it just over his hip and her fingers lock around his hand. She presses once, long enough for her to take a breath and let it all out. 

When she releases his hand, Fenris brings it back to his chest. His palm drums with a second pulse. 

* * *

He has kept his freedom this long in part because he is a light sleeper. It’s foredawn when he wakes, and Hawke is slipping out with her boots over her shoulder. She doesn’t catch him watching. Both her stockings have holes at the heel. 

* * *

Three days later there is a knock at his front door, and Fenris goes still for a solid minute. Hawke does not knock. 

But then, neither would hunters. Blade ready, he answers.

An urchin stands on his doorstep with a parcel in his arms. “From Messere Hawke,” the boy says, unbothered by the appearance of a glaring, lyrium-scarred, sword-wielding elf. “She said to tell you that snowmelt means warmer nights ahead.” 

Fenris sheathes his sword and takes the parcel, and the boy dashes away before he can offer a coin. 

Inside the delicate paper wrapping is a thick wool blanket, woven in black, silver, and red. Folded into the blanket is something just larger than his hand and bundled in a strip of old leather that he recognizes from the hilt of one of her swords. From this he uncovers an iron corkscrew of simple design and impeccable forging. 

He cracks a fraction of a smile and carries both gifts upstairs. The blanket reaches the floor on either side of his bed, indulgently large but not decadent. Around the corkscrew's handle he ties a loop of the leather, his thumb tarrying where her hand has made it dark and smooth. 

Fenris hangs the corkscrew by the hearth and looks from it to the bed to the empty bottles he has not broken. The room has changed, though he can’t pinpoint when it happened. 

It’s starting to look like a place two people can share. 


End file.
